Category Archives: Thriller

In 37 years as a broadcaster and Addy Award winning writer and producer of commercial radio, I noticed something bubbling just beneath the surface of every successful performer: a desire to push the art to the very limit. When I was able to take some time to follow a passion for writing, I used radio as backdrop for a story that had been growing in my soul for decades. In 2002 The Radio Murders began.

“You are only as good as your last show.” Bill ‘Crash’ Kradich is a competent talk show host in an industry that is rapidly changing. He knows that the only way he can survive is to take his show national. But the field is crowded and he needs something to stand apart from the rest. As if on cue, a murder in his family puts his show, his Chicago radio station and his future on the national stage. His sister, and only family, is both victim of an apparent abduction and suspect in the murder of her husband. Soon after, a disturbing pattern emerges implicating some of Kradich’s closest associates. Meanwhile the victim, Peter Janich, has crafted a swindle against a secret and dangerous force known only as The Collectors. What happens next is a torrent of bad choices leading to worst consequences.

The nationally syndicated Radio Murders with Bill Kradich is born, but at what price?

EXCERPT

Part One, Chapter 28

Molnar and Flowers found Harris Richards cooperative and genuinely in the dark about Rivillo’s involvement in the Janich murder. He handed them off to the station program director, and Kradich’s direct supervisor, Jerome Bennett, whom Richards called ‘Jerry.’

“By the way, call me Jerome. Harris is the only person on earth who calls me Jerry.” The men exchanged introductions as they walked into a large glass lined conference room in the interior of the studio complex. Flowers looked with amazement at the layers of casual activity visible through shared interior windows that exposed nearly the entire operation.

“You mentioned Dani hadn’t arrived at the station yet?” Molnar sat down at the wide table and began the interview.

“Yes, she is usually here by now. We have a standing appointment at ten to discuss the Crash Kradich show. I was about to call her when you arrived.”

“I pulled his file,” Bennett clicked a few keys on one of the computers that were scattered on nearly every surface. “He’s from Racine, no next of kin listed, but I know he has a father, whether he’s still alive I can’t tell you.”

“Did you ever get a hint that Rivillo was capable of committing a serious crime? Someone you would consider unstable?” Molnar asked.

“You know, in this business you run into some strange characters.” Bennett reared back in his chair. His thin frame seemed to sink into the soft leather.

“There’s always something bubbling under the surface. Could Renko do something stupid? Absolutely! Could he hurt anyone? That I find hard to believe. He was bordering on OCD and I think he was completely dependent on Crash, Dani and his girlfriend.”

Bennett scratched his black beard with nibbled fingernails as he spoke. “Everybody knows if you want to screw with this guy’s head just move something around in his studio or do anything out of the ordinary.”

“Did you know him to have money problems?”

“Detective, we work in radio, only the top guys are getting rich from this pricey little toy. I’m sure he lived paycheck to paycheck like most of us.”

“Jerome, we have to tell you that there’s evidence that this crime involves more than just Renko.” Flowers explained. “You might want to prepare yourself.”

“What do you mean by that?” Bennett was incensed.

“We mean that we have reason to believe that if Rivillo was involved in this murder he sure as hell didn’t act alone.”

Molnar said. “Now either this guy has some secret life even you don’t know about, or there is a real stink in this place.” Molar leaned forward, trying to disarm the programmer.

“You suspect Kradich had something to do with this?”

“You don’t seem surprised.” Flowers said.

“Nothing that guy does surprises me.” Bennett looked at the shiny surface of the conference table then up, past the detectives. “Have you ever heard of Guerilla Radio, detectives? ”

“C’mon, Jerry.” Molnar quipped. “We aren’t here for a class in radio. Is this guy off the reservation or did your evening show suddenly go psycho?”

“Psycho.” Bennett let out a little chuckle. “Some might think it’s the equivalent. It’s the way some do radio. The way some of us were taught.”

Bennett continued. “Had a boss once who told me, we don’t go to work, we go to war. And it’s only gotten worse.”

Bennett rose from the chair and walked to the windows of the conference room. Large, boney hands disappeared into the back pockets of his jeans and he looked at the line of studios. “People listen to the radio ready to pounce, they want to hate you and love you at the same time. I counsel those who want to do this silly job to be ready. You are now a target, I tell the kids. Even the veterans need reminding. Your biggest fan is predisposed to despise you, yell at you while driving on the expressway, and call you every name in the book.”

Bennett turned, his face twitched into an odd smile that melded into his usual sullen expression. “Or worse, not give a shit at all.”

He pointed, without looking up, toward the acoustic tiles and the recessed lights in the ceiling. “We have dozens of satellites shooting hundreds of radio shows down to cities all over the world, and every one of them, every no-talent buffoon with a microphone is falling all over himself trying to out-gross, out-shock or out-disgust the next guy. Whether you’re talking about some guy who practically has sex on the air, having strippers measure his dick with a ruler, to another pair of geniuses who compel people to do profane and dangerous things for a t-shirt, to the guy who slaughters an animal under the pretense of proving a point.”

The programmer leaned his knuckles on the conference table. “There is no point to it, detectives. It’s become de rigueur, a constant circus, ugly and perverse, with all nine rings of hell in every car, every kitchen, on every so-called smart phone, filling every willing ear.”

“That’s quite a speech, Jerry.” Molnar said. “Where do you and your station fall in all this? What ring of the perverse circus, as you put it, does the Crash Kradich show perform?”

Jerome Bennett sat down. A weight seemed to push him down. He took a deep breath. “Do I think a clown like Kradich could be involved in murder? Why not, Detectives? Like I said, this is war. How far a leap would it be to murder?”

He watched the investigators’ eyes. “And don’t call me Jerry.”

Molnar smiled and looked at Flowers. “That could be probable cause. Enough to serve a search on this place and his apartment, Jerome.”

“You know, I was out of this for a while. Had enough to move to Mexico and live on the beach with enough fish, beer and pussy to last a lifetime. I must have been nuts to come back.” Bennett stroked his beard and soaked in the memory.

“Can we see where Rivillo works?” Flowers asked.

“I’ll be happy to show the detectives, Mr. Bennett.” Torsha Lofton, KCI news director, was in the conference room door. It was as though she had been there all along.

Why read The Radio Murders: The Collectors and soon The Radio Murders: The Caller? The idea of talk radio going beyond any reasonable limits has never been explored quite like this. While the mystery is captivating, it is the people you will come to know that makes reading worthwhile. TheRadio Murders is home to some of the most interesting and vivid characters you will find in a mystery/thriller series. As one critic put it, “the reader is rewarded.”

In Chapter One of Stairway to the Bottom, the fifth in the Mick Murphy Key West Mystery series by Michaek Haskins, we see the beginning of Mick’s dilemma. At the moment, he isn’t even aware he is at the crossroads of his life.

Chapter One

If I hadn’t gone to watch the comedy showcase at the Key West Fringe Theater, I wouldn’t have silenced my cell phone. If I hadn’t silenced my cell, I would have answered Dick Walsh’s first call at 1:10 A.M., and then things might not have gone so badly. If is a damn big word for only having two letters.

I unplugged the cell from its charger in the morning and the lighted screen reminded me it was on silent mode and that I had five messages.

Each of Dick’s messages was more frantic and pleading than the last. He needed help, but didn’t say for what. By the third message, he was cussing but still wanted me to call and that was at 3:15. He didn’t sound drunk, like most three-in-the-morning callers do. He sounded scared.

The fifth and final message came at 5:36. He had calmed down, asked me to come by his house as soon as possible and gave me the address. His composed voice assured me I would understand the problem after I arrived and he would be in touch later.

“Mick, I need you to believe me, it isn’t what it looks like. Please help me,” his message ended with a quiet plea.

I dressed quickly in last night’s clothing and swallowed cold water from a bottle out of the cooler. Before I got into my Jeep and drove to Dick’s house on Von Phister Street, I called his cell but it went to voice mail and I left a message. We were playing phone tag.

Von Phister is a narrow, tree-lined street in a quiet neighborhood of old and new houses. Dick’s was an old two-story house with a large gumbo-limbo tree in front and two more in back. He actually had a decent-size backyard, something that is at a premium in Key West.

The house was dark. It was almost six-thirty, about an hour since his last call. The sky was a light gray with a reddish-purple sunrise pushing the dawn westward. Only a large yellow tomcat crossed my path on the empty street.

I parked in front and noticed Dick’s scooter was gone. I went up the steps to the wraparound porch, rang the bell, and then knocked. Nothing. I looked into the living room window. Nothing. I knocked again and when no one answered, I tried the door. It was unlocked so I went in.

The stench that greeted me in the hallway was familiar. The smell of death was strong and that told me somewhere in the house, death was very recent. Death, if left alone long enough cloaks all other odors, especially in the tropics – violent death even more so.

I called Dick’s name but no one answered. I walked into the living room and it looked lived in – a big screen TV, stereo with CDs stacked next to it, a sectional sofa set. A hallway led to a kitchen, small dining room, and bathroom. The stairway on the right went upstairs to the bedrooms.

Dick used the dining room as his office – medium-sized desk that was too big for the room, a computer, a printer, and a two-drawer file. I walked through into the kitchen. There was a table for two off to the side, dirty dishes in the sink and a woman’s body on the floor.

She lay face down and a large part of her head was gone. Pieces of shattered skull, along with parts of her brain and blood, tarnished the otherwise clean kitchen wall.

Blood and human waste soaked the tile floor and stained her clothing.

The stench of death filled the kitchen. I didn’t bother looking for a pulse.

An automatic with a silencer attached lay on the floor, her arm stretched out toward it as if reaching for the gun that had a small stream of brownish blood curled up next to it.

I ran upstairs to check the two bedrooms, calling Dick’s name. Both rooms were neat and the beds made. Nothing broken or seemingly out of place. Dick’s closet looked full with only a couple of empty hangers in the mix. The guestroom closet was empty.

Dick shot this woman, I thought as I looked down at her body. Whose gun was it on the floor? I didn’t touch anything, though I wanted to. My curiosity was getting the best of me.

I’m Liam Murphy, a semi-retired journalist and fulltime sail bum, some say. Key West has been my home for almost eighteen years. Before that, I lived in Southern California and reported on Central American civil wars and when they ended I covered the drug wars for a weekly newsmagazine so a dead body wasn’t something that frightened me, it intrigued me.

In Key West, I’ve made friends with all kinds of characters, including the chief of police, Richard Dowley. We have a two-sided relationship. One side is Richard the cop, the other is Richard the friend. He considers me a friend but always thinks of me as a journalist. He says I only have one side. I called him on my cell, sure of catching him at home, and knew I’d be talking to his cop side.

I told him where I was and what I’d found.

“What are you doing at that nut’s house?” I could hear him banging around in the kitchen.

When I explained about the messages and Dick’s plea, he sighed loudly enough

for me to hear on the phone.

“Don’t touch anything and I’ll call it in,” he said. “Best thing is go outside and wait for the first unit, and I’ll make it there too.”

“Okay, Richard, but tell the ambulance it doesn’t have to hurry,” I said and he hung up without replying.

Outside, I sat and waited, thinking of Dick’s last message telling me it wasn’t what it looked like. It looked like murder.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael Haskins has lived in Key West for more than 15 years. He came to the island as the daily newspaper’s business editor/writer and after five years left to take the newly created city position as public information officer. He’s written seven Mick Murphy Mysteries and had three Mick Murphy short stories published as well. Two in the series have appeared in the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and one in the Saturday Evening Post.

Michael’s Mick Murphy Key West Mysteries are popular with locals and with the many visitors to the island, who often write after reading a book and comment on how it helped them remember the good times they had in Key West.

Elicia Clegg’s suspenseful novel “Running with Chaos“ delivers an unsettling rendition of a pivotal moment when three characters stand at the crossroads of destiny and freewill.The following excerpt features one of the three main characters. Sam is at a crossroads of epic ramifications. She has been warned. She either allows eight-year-old Raven Clayton to die, or allows for a stranger to take her place. As you will read, Sam will go against everything she has been taught to break the chain fate has already forged.

. . . . .

Sam stood outside of Animus’s house for nearly five hours. She warned her several times of the ramification of what was to happen, yet Sam’s mind was made up. Sam finally started walking toward the elementary school, wishing it would hail in order for the Earth to suffer as she now did. Each step she took brought her further and further from her circle of friends. She felt trapped in this new reality, no longer rational, running off pure emotion. Something wasn’t right, but this didn’t matter. She loved Raven, she couldn’t explain why, but when she heard her laugh it was the first time she had felt alive. She liked this sensation. To her, killing him equated saving her. Even if time had to stop, she would complete this.

The night air was not cold, yet it chilled her all the same. Unaware of what her heart demanded, Sam walked on with raw intent. She paused as she reached the school. Time had frozen and somehow shifted backwards. She didn’t know how, but her group and Erin were suspended during this shift. She half surmised they were all shifted to another dimension, but this, this could not be, so her mind accepted time was bent, and a handful of people were the only ones to know.

A life for a life.

The words Animus had said; her intent not an evil one, although the outcome would remain the same. They could not create a paradox. A child was killed. It changed the community, and it changed the life of the murderer. Too many had been touched; another child would have to take Raven’s place. his was equality, this was Sam’s job.

“This is not right, it couldn’t be right.”

“You are not the judge of right or wrong,” Animus’s words stung and endured in her mind.

“Then who is?”

She stepped on the same curb she would be stepping on in approximately eleven hours. She would shield herself from the pain, walk away, and let an unknown person take Raven’s place. The morning wind picked up; the smell of death swirled all around. She had to close her eyes. Concentration built in her mind; she could see and feel everything as though time did not exist. And then she heard the new mother’s tears mixed with the fathers; their shallow breathing, a pain so agonizingly real that even now Sam could feel it.

No, no, no. Her mind screamed. She clutched at her chest. She couldn’t do this; something had forever changed inside of her. She could no longer live like this, she was no longer levelheaded, and no longer did she understand the delicate balance she herself had pledged to keep.

She waited, catching his murderous scent. The vengeance which had seared through her soul the day she killed Chuck now boiled up again, frothing and foaming out, covering her with the hatred of wickedness. She was the hunter and her prey’s disgusting lust lingered in the air making his location easy to find. She walked quickly, never hesitated as she navigated down the streets. At first walking until he was closer and then she ran. Her speed that of a trained sprinter. He was so near, she wanted to weep from the strong emotions flowing in and out of her.

“You are not the judge of right or wrong,” Animus’s words stung again.

“I am this morning!” Sam yelled into the vast emptiness of the morning hour as though someone, anyone could hear.

Her body stopped. She didn’t need to catch her breath, just take hold of her wild thoughts and keep them in check. She felt him, her body turning toward a small house. The trim was neat, painted yellow, baiting salesmen to come. The front door was red, commanding power. Even if he lacked it, he would not let the world know he was nothing more than a poltroon. The yard, green and cut to an enviable length, dawned tiny yellow flowers, most appropriate for a man who envied all those around him.

She wanted to vomit, perfection, order, no chaos, just order. She could not put the scale in check, for inside, in his mind, chaos ran free, equality, order, utter disorder… she could not go against her nature, against her job, but then again, she hadn’t been feeling like herself lately, and she felt, maybe she could twist herself inside enough to change everything. Her dramatic mood of disgust was conspicuous to her, clearing out her mind, clearing out the ability to follow orders blindly. She would and could do this.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elicia Clegg, who was born in the small town of Spanish Fork, Utah, affectionately known as happy-valley, moved at age four to Ogden, Utah; a town riddled with a dark past of opium dens, brothels and businesses with underground tunnels constructed for criminals’ and prostitutes to escape police raids. Not only was Elicia’s environment surrounded in historical intrigue, her family has long whispered about a Curse as many have died in strange events. To name but a few: her grandfather was thrown off a building in New York City, her great-grandfather “fell” off the historic Radisson in Ogden, her father was shot in the head, her brother died in a work explosion, her great-uncle had a truck load of lumber crush him to death, her maternal great-grandfather was hit by car and died, a cousin who served two tours in Vietnam died on route home from his heart bursting, her maternal great-great-grandfather disappeared without a trace, and her grandmother, while volunteering, was stabbed to death at the State Mental Health Institute.

It is no wonder she grew up with an overactive imagination and soon began to write many psychologically-thrilling suspense novels including Vexation, Castigate My Sins, and Running with Chaos.

Best selling novelist VICKI HINZE created the Fiction Blog Alliance as a way to connect readers and authors through their blogs. Many of the topics explored in these blogs qualify for our “crossroads” criteria for they cover everything from writing to history, to surgery, to politics, to war, religion and romance. There is no subject that escapes our criteria for the crossroads of humanity. Everything depends on the eye of the beholder, whether from our characters’ points of view or from our own, and ultimately how we act stems from what we believe.

Washington Irving wrote: “There is in every true woman’s heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity.”

When I read these words, I could see her, a drab woman, defeated by life, dragging herself through her days in the normal world, but in an abnormal world of strife and danger, she would come alive and inspire others. And so Kate Cummings, the hero of my novel A Spark of Heavenly Fire was born. But born into what world?

I didn’t want to write a book about war, which is a common setting for such a character-driven story, so I created the red death, an unstoppable, bio-engineered disease that ravages Colorado. Martial law is declared, rationing is put into effect, and the entire state is quarantined. During this time when so many are dying, Kate comes alive and gradually pulls others into her sphere of kindness and generosity. First enters Dee Allenby, another woman defeated by normal life, then enter the homeless—the group hardest hit by the militated restrictions. Finally, enters Greg Pullman, a movie-star-handsome reporter who is determined to find out who created the red death and why they did it.

Kate and her friends build a new world, a new normal, to help one another survive, but other characters, such as Jeremy King, a world-class actor who gets caught in the quarantine, and Pippi O’Brian, a local weather girl, think only of their own survival, and they are determined to leave the state even if it kills them.

The world of the red death brings out the worst in some characters while bringing out the best in others. Most of all, the prism of death and survival reflects what each values most. Kate values love. Dee values purpose. Greg values truth. Jeremy values freedom. Pippi, who values nothing, learns to value herself.

More Deaths Than One: Bob Stark returns to Denver after 18 years in SE Asia to discover that the mother he buried before he left is dead again. At her new funeral, he sees . . . himself. Is his other self a hoaxer? A doppelganger? Or is something more sinister going on?

Daughter Am I: When twenty-five-year-old Mary Stuart inherits a farm from her recently murdered grandparents — grand-parents her father claimed had died before she was born — she becomes obsessed with finding out who they were and why someone wanted them dead.

Light Bringer: Thirty-seven years after being abandoned on the doorstep of a remote cabin in Colorado, Becka Johnson returns to try to discover her identity, but she only finds more questions. Who has been looking for her all those years? And why?